


dorkus ignoramus (all's fair in love and war)

by Rosslyn



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 1001 ways to describe one's goods, Christmas Fluff, Crack, Established Relationship, Feel good fix, Fluff, Geeky, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Intellectual Babble, Intelligence Kink, Kirkgasms, M/M, Prank Wars, Romantic Comedy, Space Husbands, Wordplay as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosslyn/pseuds/Rosslyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh fuck me,” Jim says, groaning. “Is this some kind of April fool's joke?” he asks, double tapping on his PADD to bring up the chronometer app for good measure. “Do Vulcans, like, keep a separate calendar and it's actually April the first today?”</p><p>- in which Kirk and Spock engage in an unusual battle of wits (that somehow ends in a battle of sex).</p>
            </blockquote>





	dorkus ignoramus (all's fair in love and war)

**Author's Note:**

> Heaps of fangirl love to museattack, triplexpoint and mab for alpha/beta reading this fic, giving detailed feedback, adding flails and providing perfect puns. LOVE YA ALL <3

 

Spock is an ass. Jim is sure of it, it doesn’t matter if Spock’s the meat to his potato, or the best First Officer in the Fleet, or the sole reason he doesn’t spend Christmas drinking and crying in his underwear with Bones. Spock. Is. An. Ass.

“Dorkus Ignoramus,” Jim calls after his First Officer, who’s just finished giving the latest mission report in Ancient Greek. Spock had cited the precedence of ‘a historical Antarctic explorer who utilised the language to describe the mating habits of penguins, in order to limit the access of his research to only the educated’ – but Jim would gladly eat his command stripes if he believed a word of it. It’s because of the Orions (It’s _always_ because of the Orions). “You know I chose Latin over Ancient Greek in the Academy!”

“ _Quis est haec simia_?” Spock replies, not bothering to halt until he has reached the turbolift doors. Even then, he only turns a fraction of a shoulder, allowing Jim a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk. “The term ‘dorkus’ is not a actual form of Latin, as you should be aware, Captain.”

“Dorkus magnus,” Jim mumbles, fighting the urge to stick out his tongue. Spock disappears into the turbolift, back straight and eyebrow raised. Sulu snorts. Jim whips around and narrows his eyes, all childish vindictiveness and unresolved frustration, professionalism be damned. Sulu promptly enters into a well-timed coughing fit.

Jim stares at the viewscreen ahead and thinks this blatant display of insubordination must be punished.

He shifts in his chair. Fucking inappropriate, intellectually stimulated boners.

 

***

 

It started, as Jim’s woes often do, after a visit down to the planet that involved one too many naked, genderfluid alien entertainers. As it turns out, what Vulcans consider ‘diplomatic’ can be very different from how the locals, and sometimes the Captain of the Enterprise, interpret the term.

To say Spock was less than pleased after finding three naked aliens and one not-entirely-legal Orion in close proximity to Jim’s dick was an understatement.

At first, Jim was a little excited. Possessive Spock was hot as hell, and never let it be said that Jim Kirk isn’t up for a good, rough fuck against the wall. And what a good night it was! They nearly took down the divider and saved Scotty the long overdue job of refurbishing their quarters. Jim had fallen asleep with a smirk on his face, feeling contented and smug. Spock was great. Jim was the luckiest bastard this side of the Alpha Quadrant. The centre of the universe was practically his. 

It was the morning after that everything slipped out of his intellectual grasp. Literally and figuratively.

“Would you like me to empower the intersense modalities of postindustrial nutritive critique through hyperdissemnination for you?” is the first thing Spock asks, when Jim opens his eyes.

Jim blinks, then blinks again. His pre-caffeinated brain kind of stalled after the ‘would you like me’ part, but somehow he knows Spock isn’t offering a morning quickie. “Huh?”

Spock repeats the sentence again, and Jim still finds his cognitive processes hanging after the sixth word. “I – what?”

“The appropriate stimulant conducive to your communicative rationality,” Spock says. Jim notices that his eyes dart to the replicator.

“Oh,” Jim says. His head feels like cotton. “Coffee. Yeah. Good. Please.”

One of Spock’s eyebrows rises, as if he did not expect Jim to understand so soon. Seconds later, a hot cup of coffee appears in Jim’s hands, and Spock is surreptitiously caressing Jim’s fingers before letting go.

“ _Métron áriston,_ ” Spock advices. Two seconds later, the Universal Translator picks it up as, “Moderation is best.”

“Right,” Jim says dumbly. There must be something wrong with his senses. Maybe it was that weird strawberry-like thing the Orion tried to feed him with her tongue, because he is sure Spock just spoke in Ancient Greek. “Um.”

Undisturbed, Spock turns and replicates a bowl of grained oats and begins to eat it with his typical, simple efficiency. As usual, he peruses his PADD for news updates across the galaxy, while allowing Jim to fully wake up before Alpha Shift. Jim is grateful for this - he isn’t the most efficient morning person, especially after a night of spectacular, bond-affirming sex.

“So,” Jim purrs lazily, after his second cup of coffee and all of his faculties are online. “Last night was amazing.”

“The eroticisation of syntactical certainty does provide a context for the conceptual logic of your behaviour,” Spock replies. 

Jim blinks. Shakes his head a little, suppresses the urge to pick his ears. “What?”

Spock meets his eyes over the PADD blankly. 

“The affirmation of representational familiarity requests that I question the legitimisation of - ” Spock says. 

“Whoa,” Jim interjects, holding up a hand. Squints. “Say that again.”

Spock repeats the sentence obediently, and Jim watches his lips move. Every single word corresponds correctly with the lip movement. Spock is speaking Federation Standard. It isn’t some strange malfunction in the Universal Translator, coupled by Spock’s sudden illogical desire to speak in an arcane language. 

“What the hell’s going on?” Jim says, completely bewildered. “What’s wrong with your speech? Do I need to get Bones?”

“I am adequate,” Spock says, if a little irritated. Jim breathes a little easier - at least _that_ much hasn’t changed.

“So what’s up with all the jargon?” Jim asks, palms up. “I mean, you use jargons all the time, but I’m pretty sure what you just said doesn’t even make sense.”

Spock’s eyebrow lifts arrogantly. “The postmodernist discourse on human behaviour has proven effective in providing fundamental panopticism and derailing - ”

“Oh fuck me,” Jim says, groaning. “Is this some kind of April fool's joke?” he asks, double tapping on his PADD to bring up the chronometer app for good measure. “Do Vulcans, like, keep a separate calendar and it's actually April the first today?”

“I find your predilection in resorting to anachronistic Terran traditions in lieu of an adequate response to my challenge baffling," Spock replies. “If somewhat unsurprising.”

“Now we are talking,” Jim says, deciding to let the subtle insult slide. “So what, your brain _spasms_ and these things just spew forth? C’mon, Spock, that’s just funny.”

Spock narrows his eyes. “A self-falsifying paradox,” he says, “since you indicated not twenty-four hours before that you found intelligence largely incompatible with good humour, with the evidence in physical form.”

“I - Spock,” Jim says, pleading. Fuck, he knew any conversation he had while under Orion pheromones would come back and bite him in the ass. “I was like, under the influence, okay? I’m sorry. And I meant ‘good humour’ in the sense of ‘stupid, childish pranks’. Which are all illogical, as you rightly pointed out. You’re funny. Haha! See? I find you hilarious. Not, like _weird_ hilarious, but... oh, fuck it.”

Spock’s eyebrow is arching more impressively by the second, as if daring Jim to continue. Jim doesn’t. When provoked, Spock can be _prissy_. It usually doesn’t end well for Jim (or his rear end) when Spock gets prissy.

“It is two weeks until Christmas,” Spock says inconsequentially.

“Yeah?” Jim perks up, hopeful. Holidays are always good get-out-of-jail-free cards, and never let it be said that Jim Kirk is above a good out of jail free card.

“I find there is a certain sense of logic in indulging in the illogic of traditions,” Spock adds, mild.

Jim blinks, then grins. “Does that mean I should start hanging mistletoe?”

“I have been perusing terran traditions in the form of educational holovids,” Spock continues, completely ignoring him. “Before the seasonal rituals of a romantic nature may occur, there is often a degree of chaos and mishap present in the protagonists’ relationship, frequently applied in _good humour_ , so that the culmination of said relationship may resemble a satisfying peak.”

“Satisfying - Spock, _what educational holovids_?” Jim asks, horrified. “You haven’t been loped into that awful Romcom Club, have you?”

Spock replies with a single, expressive eyebrow.

Jim stares. “You’re joking,” he says.

“Vulcans do not joke,” Spock replies, sliding off the chair and walking towards the door. “As you have so eloquently lamented the night previous, Captain.”

Jim panics for a total of two seconds before he catches the tiny, barely noticeable smirk on Spock’s face. His mouth falls stupidly open of its own accord. 

“Oh, mister. You are _on._ ”

 

***

 

In his less proud moments, Jim dreamed of being friends with Spock in the Academy. Well, ‘friends’ might be too strong a word in this particular fantasy. Bitter rivals. Archnemeses, more like. Then he’d have a legitimate reason to go head to head with Spock in something other than chess, without the hierarchy of command coming between them. Jim fantasised about one-upping Spock in every aspect of his student life, beginning with a well-timed interruption in class, culminating in the victory over the _Kobayashi Maru_ (preferably sans the hearing and the subsequent choking, but that’s what fantasies are for, right?)

Never in his wildest dreams did Jim think it would go like this.

Spock is reciting a backdated mission report in some arcane language again. Jim thought he had gotten Spock back for the Ancient Greek Incident two days ago by scrambling the voice command control unit at Spock’s console, making Spock declare his love for logic in Latin every time he had to activate his station, but apparently not. (Spock thought it was the height of illogic to call his highly prized logic ‘my little springtime’, but Jim was having none of it. Nobody laughed. They all had a strangely constipated face that day instead.)

It takes Jim thirty seconds just to make out the accent – Betazoidian. Spock has clearly had the ‘knowing thy enemy’ lesson down well, because it is one of the languages Jim _didn’t_ have time for in the Academy, despite being Treasurer of the Xenolinguistics club.

“Anything but the postmodernists,” Jim says through gritted teeth, grinning in what he hopes is a vaguely threatening way. 

Spock makes a melodious sound that could either be a note of assent, or a well placed insult, and continues with aplomb. Jim briefly entertains the idea of creating a temporary short in the floor lights circuitry just to throw Spock off his game, but decides it isn’t worth the panic attack Scotty will likely get. He looks ahead, glances around the bridge, then suddenly realises everyone else is listening to the report with avid interest. 

“What…” Jim mutters under his breath, then checks his universal translator. Its indicator light is off. The bridge crew’s units, however, are all on.

“Oh no you didn’t,” Jim says. “You hacked my universal translator?”

Spock pauses and lifts an eyebrow. “I do not understand,” he says, switching back to Federation Standard for a moment, calm as pie. Then continues reciting as if nothing has happened.

“You - ” Jim begins, then licks his lips. Spock’s eyes flare a little, but his pace doesn’t falter or stall. Whatever he’s saying, it must’ve been controversial, because Sulu is sneaking them increasingly worried looks, while Chekov’s eyes are dangerously close to popping out. From the way Uhura is sitting, she has turned on the noise-cancelling function of her headphone, and is having none of it. This worries him endlessly.

Jim darts one look at Spock, then makes lightening-quick work on his PADD to check the extent of damage done to his universal translator. He finds an extremely complex subroutine that blocks his access to the translator services, without undermining the integrity of the translator programme itself. Logical and efficient, and one that would take a painstaking while to crack.

Spock is looking at him again, one eyebrow raised. Jim can’t decide whether he wants to punch him, or kiss him. Maybe both. At the same time. 

Then Spock says something and Sulu chokes. Chekov’s cheeks flush red, and Jim nearly springs out of his chair. 

“I think that’s quite enough, Mr. Spock,” he says loudly. “Can you leave the rest of the report in my quarters?”

“Certainly,” Spock replies. He looks - smug. Jim wants to kiss him until he suffocates, but Spock would probably just cite statistics on how Vulcans are adapted to less oxygenated environments, hence Jim would likely pass out before he does. But Jim wants to kiss him anyway, that bastard.

Spock brushes Jim’s fingers on his way back to the science station. Jim recites the first twenty digits of Pi in his head, hoping that his sudden erection will subside. 

 

***

 

Jim has no luck bypassing the subroutine on his universal translator, which means he can’t understand a word Keenser says unless Scotty is there. Thankfully, Scotty is _always_ there. Also, Spock doesn’t try to pull the language card again, which Jim is grateful for. He isn’t sure he’s above going to Uhura for help if Spock tries another alien language, even if that would earn him a month of mocking. 

He installs a tiny little virus on Spock’s PADD that announces ‘logical’ every time Spock makes a selection on screen. The sound bite Jim downloaded off the database sounds suspiciously like Sarek. Jim watches Spock wince subtly and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Day five and things escalate a little. Jim wakes up to find his replicator programme changed to a CMO-approved diet, consisting mainly of vegetables and grains, and cheeseburgers only on Fridays. Jim spends the entirety of his breakfast debating the merits of messing up Spock’s plomeek soup recipe, then decides he hasn’t got the heart. That subtle look of bliss when Spock sips that soup always gives Jim’s heart a little twinge. Jim can be an ass, but he’s not _evil_.

He gives Spock a dirty look on the way out. Spock blinks innocently, then leans over and brushes a kiss on his forehead.

Jim promptly forgives him and considers falling to his feet to beg for forgiveness. Except, Spock is not really angry at him, and Jim is enjoying this way too much. 

Jim pushes Spock to the door and kisses him deeply for nearly five minutes, complete with hip grinding and tongue fucking, before releasing him and dashing out the door. Spock ends up fifteen seconds late to the bridge, and his PADD announces ‘logical’ after he pledges eternal love to his console. Jim grins and grins in the Captain's Chair.

Spock finds him in the turbolift after shift. Jim braces himself for another verbal spar, but Spock seems to have switched tactics once again.

“Are you free for the duration of next ten minutes?” Spock asks cordially. He stands ramrod straight and studies the ceiling.

Jim eyes him suspiciously. “Yeah,” he says. “I was gonna change, then meet Bones in the mess. Why? You wanna come?”

Spock doesn’t answer. “Computer, scan officer’s deck for ensign activity.”

“No ensign activity detected,” the computer replies. “Dr. McCoy is presently in his quarters.”

“What are you doing?” Jim asks, bewildered and vaguely alarmed. 

Spock takes a step closer, and suddenly his scent floods Jim’s senses. Jim is half hard instantly. “Oh,” he says, licking his lips in what he hopes is a suggestive way. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” 

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Thought has various forms,” he murmurs, and gently presses his fingers onto Jim’s face. 

Pleasure explodes through Jim’s veins like nuclear fusion. It’s like nothing he’s experienced before - it’s raw and powerful and intent on one purpose. His knees give out instantly, and he is vaguely aware of Spock catching him. Every nerve in his body is on fire, and the pleasure is _relentless._ His vision whites out, and he comes in a matter of seconds. 

When Jim comes to, Spock is kissing him: deep, languid, almost lazily, and Jim has never felt so loved and blissed out in his life. Then Spock pulls away, and Jim belatedly realises there is a telltale stain on his trousers. He just came in his pants.

“Fuck,” Jim breathes. Spock’s lips quirk.

“Perhaps later,” he murmurs.

The turbolift doors open, and the corridor is as the computer indicated, empty. Spock gives Jim one last soft kiss on the temple and walks out of the lift.

Jim stares after his retreating form dumbly. “Fuck,” he repeats.

He’s got to up his game.

 

***

 

Jim waits three days before the opportunity he is looking for finally presents itself. As a rule, Vulcans don’t need as much sleep as humans, so their sleeping schedules are often out of sync. Which means when Spock _does_ sleep, sometimes Jim doesn’t need to.

The bedside chronometer tells him it’s 03:06. Spock is in the middle of his recuperation cycle after a thirty-two hour awake period, which is not fair, because when Jim slept, Spock somehow changed the language on his PADD to High Vulcan ( _High_ Vulcan!) and he has yet to find a way to change it back. Since Spock also denied him access to a translator programme both in person and in his PADD, Jim has had no choice but to carry around a 3,410 page High Vulcan to Federation Standard dictionary full of fables and tangents everywhere he goes. It was either that or incur the wrath of Lieutenant Uhura. _Nobody_ chooses to willingly incur the wrath of Uhura.

Jim spends a minute studying Spock’s face in the low light. Spock sleeps peacefully, his expression neutral but somehow more relaxed. In a moment of weakness, Jim contemplates running a finger over Spock’s slanted eyebrows, but decides against it. His mission is covert.

Diving under the covers, Jim expertly finds Spock’s cock and gives it an experimental stroke. Spock doesn’t stir. Jim carefully puts his cheek down on Spock’s thigh, and breathes long and slow. No reaction. Grinning, Jim goes for broke and swallows it whole. 

Spock’s body twitches a little, and Jim feels him lengthening. Backing up just before it can gag him, Jim starts to work in earnest, giving gentle suction and thorough licks before building up the sensation, careful not to disturb Spock with any sudden movements. Soon Spock’s cock is pulsing in his hands, dripping copious amounts of precum onto his chin, and scorching hot to touch. Jim’s jaw is sore. He fully intends to leave Spock hanging, so he can observe the effect next morning.

Jim crawls out from the covers grinning like an idiot. His grin freezes when he meets with a pair of perfectly clear, dark eyes. 

For a long moment, Spock doesn’t say anything. His expression doesn’t even change. Jim believes for a total of two mad seconds that Spock is capable of sleeping with his eyes open, until Spock blinks. Once.

“Um,” Jim whispers, thinking fast. “Sssh. It’s okay. You’re dreaming.”

Spock blinks again. His eyes are incredibly focused.

“Vulcans do not dream,” he informs Jim levelly. 

“Oh,” Jim says. “Well.” he licks his lips. “But if you did, you would’ve dreamt of me.”

One of Spock’s eyebrow slowly climbs. “I see,” he says. 

A wet, slippery finger suddenly appears between Jim’s ass cheeks. The hairs on Jim’s arms stand on their end. He’s not cold. “Uh, what are you doing?” Jim asks, a mix of excitement and dread.

“I am dreaming,” Spock replies. His expression is deliberate and intense in the low light. The precum coated finger slips into Jim’s hole without any resistance. Resistance is futile.

“Fuck,” Jim says. 

“Quite,” Spock agrees, and presses his fingers to Jim’s psi-points. 

Later, Jim finds in his tangent-filled Vulcan Dictionary that a Vulcan in the middle of an interrupted sleep cycle can be rather feral. Standing next to him, Spock makes a nonsensical selection on his PADD, and it announces, ‘logical’.

The crew is bewildered. Spock looks smug. Bones declares that he doesn’t want to know. Jim mopes and spends the day sitting sideways in the chair.

 

***

 

Things get busy and vaguely more ridiculous in the days leading up to Christmas. Having been entrusted with the ship-wide celebratory festivities, Uhura has paired up with Scotty to have the rec hall modified to cater for a larger party that would potentially involve dancing Ice Dragons from Betelgeuse, (“Ice dragons? Christmas? Are you sure that’s the right holiday for them?”) but it’s down to Spock to double check the design modifications. Bored halfway through Beta Shift, Jim hacks into Spock’s PADD and appends a tiny little equation to Scotty’s report under the subtitle, ‘Captain’s request’.

Spock confronts him about it ten minutes later. “Captain,” he says, mild and professional, “Would you care to elaborate on your specific request?”

“Hmm,” Jim says, drumming his fingers lazily and giving Spock a long look, “You’re the genius; you figure it out.”

Spock surveys the equation again. “It is an equation depicting a pistoning movement,” he says. “Neither Mr. Scott nor Lieutenant Uhura has indicated the need of -” he trails off, then eyes over the calculations again. Slowly, the tip of Spock’s ears flush green. “I see,” he says, clearing his throat.

Jim grins. “Good,” he says, leaning close and winking lecherously. “I expect an _outstanding_ performance as usual, Mr. Spock.”

Spock stares at the PADD for a few moments, then lifts an eyebrow. “Of course, your equation is not reflective of reality. Necessary adjustments would have to be made, before it can be applied to real-life situations.”

“Adjustments?” Jim asks, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Spock says, flipping over his PADD. “From length to velocity to acceleration -”

“Velocity,” Jim repeats, lips twitching.

“- accounting also, for the neglected factor of time duration and necessary pause -”

“Whoa whoa whoa -”

“As Vulcans have three times the strength of humans,” Spock continues, dropping his voice to almost a low purr and swiping his fingers over the PADD, “the final resultant calculation should look - thus.”

Jim stares at the new, significantly greater number just as Spock makes a tap with his finger. The PADD announces, ‘logical’. Spock raises an eyebrow in evident agreement.

Jim licks his lips and feels a mix of intense hatred and desire flare in his gut. “Conference room, Mr. Spock,” he orders lowly.

Jim spends the afternoon sideways in his chair.

 

***

 

Somehow, this becomes a pattern.

Jim suggests a game of strip chess. He makes a point of turning up the thermometer high in the room, so that Spock won’t feel cold when his garments invariably come off. They battle over the queen, two bishops and a lone knight in their respective underwear for over an hour. Eventually Jim hooks a foot over Spock’s ankle, and glides two fingers over Spock’s free hand. The outcome of the game is contested, and Jim spends the next day sideways in his chair.

Jim starts to play a game called ‘how often can I touch Spock without the crew noticing’. He develops a habit of standing in shadows and well-concealed doorways just so his ministrations are hidden from prying eyes, and hones his footsie and Vulcan kissing skills. Spock allows this with a remarkable poker face, until Jim tries to give him a covert handjob during one particularly boring video comm with Admiral Komack. Spock pauses, gives him a look, then touches the back of his hand. Jim learns in the space of two seconds just how powerful Spock’s telepathic abilities can be, when his shields are down. He spends the next forty-five minutes nearly at bursting point in his chair, listening to Spock and Komack exchange details about a newly established treaty, while all he can think in his head is ‘fuck me now’. 

After the transmission finally ends (finally!) Jim begs vocally and shamelessly, and Spock acquiesces. Jim spends the rest of the day sideways in his chair.  

On the evening of day eleven in Jim’s ‘What the fuck is happening to us’ chronicle, (chapter ‘I have no idea but I love it’), Jim sets out to top Spock. It’s not that they don’t switch often, it’s just Jim can be a real lazy ass sometimes and toppy, possessive Spock has always been Jim’s favourite. In light of recent events, Jim decides a much needed boost to his masculine dignity is in order. He manages to back Spock onto the table, and is about to execute the deadly ear lick when Spock starts to recite equations. It takes Jim thirty seconds to realise Spock is numerically translating every single move in his advances, and supplying them with perfected adjustments. Jim’s hilariously - hilariously affronted.

They end up having ‘blind sex’ in a way that they have ‘blind chess’, outlining sex moves in a purely numerical fashion. Spock invokes Vulcan strength and precision, and Jim retaliates through spontaneity and imaginativeness. The resultant equation is almost three times as difficult on Jim’s end, and Spock’s eyebrow climbs higher and higher. His brain fries before all the blood is redirected elsewhere, and he spends the next day contemplating relevant modification needed for swapping the Captain’s Chair with a Captain’s Couch. 

Bones is giving him weird looks. Nobody else notices since it’s almost Christmas. Jim asks Bones what he wants for Christmas, and the good doctor says, ‘a healthy dose of ‘don’t tell me, I don’t want to know’.’ Jim details a particularly inventive move of his anyway, and spends the afternoon moping with his hand on his neck.

Spock refuses to give up the secret to Jim’s locked-out hamburger recipe on the replicator. Jim refuses to wipe the ‘logical’ virus on Spock’s PADD. Uhura refuses to have a look at Jim’s useless universal translator (“It will work when you really need it to, and you really don’t right now, Captain,” followed by what Jim was sure was an inappropriate Betelgeuse insult). Spock develops a habit of sending a pulsing jolt of lust and need whenever Jim is least expecting it. Jim wonders if Spock is entering into another Pon Farr, even though it’s only been a year since the last. He contemplates going to Bones about it, but Spock catches him before he does.

Jim spends the next day sitting sideways with his hands on his neck, moping.

 

***

 

Jim rewrites a Betazoidian-to-Standard translation programme from the ground up on his personal PADD. It takes him a total of five days, interspersed with three purely psychologically induced orgasms and five mind-blowing physical tumbles in the hay. On the night that Spock is down at the lab supervising an experiment, Jim finally grasps the chance and feeds the document through the scanners. 

The backdated report turns out to be a direct report to Starfleet, regarding the sudden change in a proposed trade treaty with the Planet Celtius VI, which they visited three _years_ before. The change was in favour of Starfleet, which was probably why the request was never properly pursued. Jim honestly can’t think of a reason why Spock is bringing this up now. Spock and he hadn’t been together then - it was during one of Jim’s wilder days. Jim can’t even remember shit, except the planet had a beautiful Queen. 

Wait. Beautiful Queen.

Jim scans the report, and groans.

 _...The captain applied the elastic modulus into the extension over the original dimension over a particular specimen of the exotic material_ , _native to this planet as a function over time, with perturbation as the numerical solver in an attempt to derive a satisfactory solution._ _As time approached a certain limit, a critical threshold of a particular regulatory biochemical was attained, which helped to facilitate the positive incorporation of said material..._

“With perturbation as the numerical solver?” Jim demands, just as Spock walks through the door. “You really know how to talk dirty, don’t you?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I see you were finally successful in your endeavours,” he says mildly.

Jim gives him the stink eye. “You are using something I did _before_ we got together as fodder? That’s not very logical, you know.”

Spock blinks innocently at him. “I have merely attempted to rectify a long overdue request from Headquarters,” he says. 

Jim waves away the comment determinedly and points two fingers at his groin, unashamed. “ _Elastic modulus_? Is that what you call this baby?”

Somehow Spock manages to gives him a sarcastic look without moving a single muscle on his otherwise neutral face.

“We need to talk about your sexual innuendos,” Jim announces seriously. “Because there’s no way you are labelling my trademark mind-blowing Kirkgasms _the attainment of_ _regulatory biochemicals_.”

Spock halts in his tracks, blinks, opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks mildly appalled and morbidly fascinated at the same time. Jim narrows his eyes and grins triumphantly. 

“Wait, that doesn’t throw you off, does it? _Talking_ about sex?”

“I am perfectly capable of discussing topics of a sexual nature,” Spock replies. “As the report demonstrates.”

“Mmm,” Jim says, crossing his legs and starting to count off his finger. “Spanking the monkey. Wrestling Cyclops, playing the one-holed meat flute, taming the trouser-snake, bashing the bishop -”

Spock’s expression goes from morbid fascination to fascinated morbidity in a span of fifteen matter seconds. “I - believe I am within full grasp of the concept,” he says, pained.

“Within full grasp,” Jim says, and juts his hips out obscenely on the chair. “That’s good, that. So! You can choke the chicken, slap the salami, tease the weasel, polish the family jewels -”

Spock’s eyes flit to Jim’s groin, then up to his neck. He looks torn between a nerve pinch and a ‘strategically applied force upon areas of human male fragility’. Jim knows, cause he’s been through it. 

Jim considers changing the topic, but Spock’s cheeks are flushed green, and he hasn’t had the upper hand in days. It’s simply much too good a moment to let pass. He reclines sensually and looks up through his lashes. “Do you want to hear a poem?” he asks, making his voice sultry and low.

Spock blinks, obviously bewildered at the sudden change in tone, but nods nonetheless, curious. Jim gives him a shit-eating grin. Spock immediately appears as if he’s regretting the decision already.

Jim clears his throat and begins. “T’hy’la, for argument’s sake, let us say -”

“The poem begins with the term t’hy’la?” Spock asks, intrigued. “T’hy’la is a specifically Vulcan term. I am not aware of any Vulcan poetry that -”

“Spock.” Jim says, rolling his eyes. “If you really want to know, the poem actually begins with ‘Ladies, for argument’s sake’. I improvised, kay?”

The corner of Spock’s lips twitches. “I see. Please continue.”

“T’hy’la, for argument’s sake, let us say,” Jim begins again, and allows for a dramatic pause. “That I’ve seen my fair share of ding-a-ling.”

Spock’s eyebrow jumps.

“...member and jock, of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle, of three-for-a-bob,” Jim continues, biting the inside of his tongue to stop himself from laughing at the utter bewilderment on Spock’s face. “Of willy and winky; in fact, you could say, I’m as au fait with Hunt-the-Salami as Ms M. Lewinsky -”

“I am unfamiliar with the character -” Spock tries.

“ _Equally_ sick up to here with the beef bayonet, the pork sword, the saveloy -” 

Spock’s mouth is hanging slightly open. It’s more hilarious than it is adorable. Jim coughs twice into his hands to stop the uncontrollable spasm in his stomach, then plows on with an inhale and a singsong voice.

“Love-muscle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick, dipstick and wick -”

Spock’s hand twitches. “I see,” he says. “It appears we have not deviated from the topic at all.”

“Not at all,” Jim says agreeably. Then, “the rammer, the slammer, the Rupert, the shlong -”

Spock closes his eyes and inhales, meditatively. Jim gets to the part of the ‘Captain’s best friend’ then falls over laughing, breathless and giddy at the expression on Spock’s face.

“A most impressive improvisational feat,” Spock comments dryly, after Jim has finished wiping most of his tears away.

“It’s a real poem,” Jim informs him between hiccups. “Carol Ann Duffy. The maddest British poet ever lived, but boy, does she know her stuff.”

“A most impressive piece of… knowledge,” Spock amends. Jim can think of more than a few choice adjectives that Spock has thoughtfully omitted from the pause. He clutches at his chest and laughs harder. 

Spock is watching him with a look full of exasperation and fondness. It makes Jim feels safe and whole and loved. When Jim extends a finger lazily in Spock’s direction, still smiling stupidly wide from his own musings, Spock’s expression turns indulgent.

“It is said that in one of the ancient African tribal languages on Earth, sexual congress is translated as ‘laughing together’,” Spock tells him softly.

“Oh?” Jim says, sitting up a little straighter. 

Spock doesn’t elaborate, but his lips gives a tiny quirk in the form of a rare smile. Jim’s chest constricts a little. His heart feels full.

“I’m sorry for saying those stupid things,” Jim murmurs. “I wouldn’t for a moment think you are anything other than perfect.”

Spock’s eyebrow raises in a classic rendition of ‘indeed?’, and Jim instinctively feels he’s being subtly mocked for the double negative. It doesn’t bother him a bit. 

“Y’know,” Jim says, feeling warm and fuzzy and slightly sleepy, “If it makes you feel any better, that time with the Celtius Queen? It wasn’t even a good lay. I’m pretty sure I just lay back and thought about the Federation.”

To his surprise, Spock carefully avoids his eyes. “The Federation does appear to be your top priority whenever a diplomatic... _opportunity,_ arises,” Spock says. He sounds mildly… petulant.

Jim considers the sentence, then considers it again. “Whoa,” he says, suddenly making sense of his ridiculous two weeks. “That’s it? You think I care more about the _Federation_ and its _mining treaties_?”

“It is only logical,” Spock says methodically. “The dilithium mines on Beltelgeuse are central to Federation’s development in the Quadrant. While your methods have sometimes been unorthodox -” His eyes flit to the report on the desk, and Jim does not miss the flare of jealousy - “They have always been effective.”

“That’s more bullshit than all of your postmodernist wisdom combined,” Jim says without heat. He smiles, slow and knowingly, and watches Spock’s face soften. “Seriously? Spock?”

Spock raises an eyebrow in reply, exasperated, but otherwise appeased. He isn’t really upset, and Jim’s _elastic modulus_ has never actually been close with another being since they got together. But never let it be said that Vulcans don’t get insecure.  

Jim grins, then extends his hand again. “C’mere,” he says.

Spock curls two fingers against his. Jim gives it a gentle tug, and straightens up, stepping into Spock’s personal space. He grabs Spock’s hand and brings it against his face, in the intimate position of a meld. 

“Any time you want,” Jim murmurs. “See how much you mean to me. Any time you want.”

Spock’s expression shifts. His finger dips into the grove of Jim’s face, soft and gentle and gratuitous. Coming home. “I cherish thee,” he says quietly.

“I know,” Jim smiles, and leans in for a kiss. “If the Federation ever asks me to betray you, I would run away and we could become space pirates.”

Jim feels, rather than sees, the eyebrow rise. “Space pirates,” Spock repeats against his lips. “They are considered unbecoming for the Vulcan species.”

“I think you’d look hot in a pirate costume,” Jim replies, backing them into the table. His hands knock over Spock’s PADD, and the screen intones, ‘logical’. He grins. “See?” 

Spock’s lashes brushes softly against his cheek. “I could stand corrected with your persuasion,” Spock murmurs.

“Mmm. You would.” Jim says, then nudges Spock’s nose. “Come see for yourself.”

Spock smiles against his lips. Jim inhales as the familiar warmth floods his veins. Their minds roam the sky as one.

 

***

 

Jim somehow manages to procure a pirate costume for Spock for Christmas. Spock declares its appearance historically inaccurate and its seafaring purpose ill suited for space piracy. Hitting Spock’s PADD repeatedly to make a point (‘logical, logical, looooogical’), Jim dons an identical pair of swagger pants for himself. 

Jim receives a donut cushion as a collective gift from his crew the next morning. He spends boxing day squishing around in his chair. All is well.

 

 

 

 

 **HAPPY ENDING** (pun intended)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to QI, Bones, Carol Ann Duffy, a ridiculously funny Saiyuki fic I’ve read ages ago, and my quantum physicist friend for coming up with Spock’s elastic modulus report.
> 
> Absolutely no offense to postmodernists. All quotes generated by thevirtualacademic, then modified. None of them make any sense.
> 
> Merry Christmas :D
> 
> PS: The magnificent Mab has made a [collection of Kirk's donut gifsets. Come have a look see, IT IS EVERYWHERE. ](http://mab-shares.tumblr.com/tagged/kirk%27s-donut) HAHAHAAHAHAHA


End file.
